A Test of Loyalty
by elegantideas
Summary: In the movie it appeared that Illya was able to join UNCLE and escape the KGB without any ramifications. But the KGB would not let one of their best agents get away that easily, would they? (Rated T for language. Please R&R)
1. Chapter 1

An almighty scream terrorized the warehouse and sent every empty shelf into a death-rattle against the steel walls. In the center of the vast room lay a battered man curled in a fetal-position on the dirty floor, his assailant clad in a military dress uniform and already poised to offer him the next blow.

"Please," breathed the battered man heavily through gritted teeth. "Stop." Sweat mixed with blood and poured in streams down his face, matting his hair and stinging his eyes.

His torturer kicked the poor man in the ribs. "I will stop when you tell me what you know."

Again he cried out in pain. "I told you already, I don't know anything about the American!"

"Fool!" The torturer kicked him in every spot from head to toe and the man did his best to tuck himself in like a turtle to lessen the impact of the blows.

The soldier leered, "You can't expect us to believe you spent all this time in an Western organization with an American partner and come away knowing nothing?" He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "No, you may have fooled the capitalists, Illya Kuryakin, but you'll never fool us."

He produced a whip from behind his back and swung it at Illya. Illya tried to roll over to dodge the blow, but he was too slow and the whip caught him instead across the face. Illya groaned loudly.

"Hurts, doesn't it, Illya?" his interrogator jeered, a sadistic, yellow-toothed grin spreading across his lips. "It'll all stop when you stop being a fucking liar. Who is the American and what has he done?"

"I don't know!" Illya gasped, arms too weak from pain to even wipe the blood that was dripping into his eyes. "I don't know his name. We used code names. I called him Cowboy."

"Cowboy had a name though, what was it?" The interrogator kicked Illya again, this time in the head. "Perhaps that'll remind you."

The room was spinning and it had to stop before Illya could answer. He waited and waited, his entire body consumed in an aching fire but it still wouldn't come into focus.

"Answer me!" More kicking; the interrogator didn't understand that the room was spinning, did he?

"I have," Illya whispered. "I told you I don't know."

The room was beginning to calm, but Illya still couldn't see the interrogator take out the knife that was now cutting his side. He felt the thin undershirt he had been wearing being ripped from his body, and the searing pain of the blade slicing through his side.

Illya was screaming but his torturer yelled above him. "You liar! And the girl with your team, who is she?"

"Stop! Please, she was just my partner, we didn't talk. She spoke German. Please!" Tears squeezed at the corners of his eyes as he tried to gasp for ragged breaths. Each cut and each scream made it harder for his chest to contract around his broken ribs. He felt his chest fluttering open farther than it should be able to, as there was no unbroken bone to stop it.

Another kick to the chest and Illya began to cough up blood. "Illya Kuryakin, you fucking liar! Tell me who she is, we know you spoke together. We know she knows English."

Illya couldn't stop coughing to catch his breath let alone to answer. But it was only after he managed a couple rapid, shallow breaths that he realized he was being asked no further questions.

In addition to breathing, he was having trouble seeing as well. There appeared to be two blurry figures fighting, one smaller than the other. A gunshot left his ears ringing and he was able to make out the larger one sprawled on the ground not far from where Illya was crouched on hands and knees.

A muffled voice was speaking nonsensically. However, it's tone was urgent and Illya wished he could understand it. The blurry figure was coming into focus now, and Illya saw it's mouth moving. It was a man in a suit and the man was speaking to him.

Thoughts raced through Illya's clouded mind as he tried simultaneously to fight the urge to collapse as well as to decipher what was being said. It was all he could do to remain on his hands and knees and to keep looking at the man. Something about his face was familiar.

The man was helping Illya up to his feet and saying more. "Who did this?" Illya had cracked the code at last: English.

Though he tried Illya couldn't stay on his feet, and he dropped back to the floor again. The man picked Illya up and slung him over his shoulder. Illya coughed blood all over the man's suit as he began to drag Illya somewhere. He wanted to apologize but no sound came out of his mouth, just more blood.

"Peril." Illya heard the man's voice, soaked deeply with worry. Peril? What does that mean? Who was this man? Illya wanted to ask it all.

But all he could do before the world went black was croak out in English, "Help me."


	2. Chapter 2

Illya awoke to find himself in a rather luxurious bed with five layers of covers thrown over him. Even so, he still caught himself shivering. He looked around. Gradually, his surroundings began to make sense; he was in a hotel room, but a hotel room where he did not know.

A relieved gasp of a woman's voice. "He's awake!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gaby enter, a smile on her face but worry set deep behind her beautiful green eyes. As she drew closer to his bedside, he saw dark circles under her eyes and her hair looked like it could use a wash.

"Have you had trouble sleeping?" he asked, voice course and rough from disuse. Immediately, she started to laugh and cry at the same time.

She sat down carefully beside him and began gently running her fingers through his hair, wet from sweat, though she didn't seem to mind. "Oh, Illya," she whispered in a subdued voice, "Illya, Illya, Illya. We thought you were dead."

Before Illya's clouded mind could form an adequate English response, Napoleon Solo popped in. His hair wasn't slicked back as pristinely as usual and his face bore the traces of a five o'clock shadow. "Could it be? Has the mighty Soviet bear awaken from his slumber at last?"

"Easy, Napoleon," Gaby said tenderly, still gazing at Illya with tears in her eyes. "He's still got a fever."

"I'm fine," Illya protested. At this, he forced himself to sit up on his elbows, and immediately regretted his decision. Every inch of his body was enveloped in agony all at once, but worst was the searing pain in his chest. Suddenly, he became dizzy and he tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but not only was the pain in his chest too great to do so, he also began to cough. Splotches of bright red appeared on the bed sheets.

"Oh, my god, Illya!" Gaby sprang off the bed and held Illya's chest with one hand and his back with the other.

"I'm… Sorry…" Illya choked out. He covered his mouth with his hand, and when he pulled it away it was already drenched in blood.

"Perhaps this is a bad time," Solo said casually, already halfway out the door. "I'll come back later."

"Don't you dare!" Gaby screeched, catapulting off the bed and to Napoleon within seconds. She plucked his neatly embroidered handkerchief from his pocket. "Give me this."

"Hey!" Napoleon patted the spot on his chest theatrically where she had robbed him. "That's new, you know!"

"You're unbelievable," Gaby said, the tightness in her voice leaving no room for joking. Her face was bright pink as she handed the handkerchief to Illya. "Here, take this."

"Thank you," Illya sputtered and began to cough into the handkerchief instead of his hand. Gaby left the room then, deliberately hitting Napoleon squarely in the shoulder on her way out.

"Ow," Napoleon called after her.

"You deserve it." Illya heard her yell back.

By the time Gaby returned with a glass of water Illya's coughing fit had ceased. He took a few sips, and then breathed as deeply as he dared. The room began to spin again, and he rubbed his temple until it stopped.

"Illya?" Gaby's voice sounded even more worried now than before.

"I'm fine," Illya shook his head. As slowly as he could, he swung his legs around to the side of the bed so he could start to get up. Every fiber of his body protested this, but he kept going, determined not to let Gaby nor Solo see how poorly he felt.

"Where are you going?" Gaby asked.

"Bathroom," Illya replied. The instant he put weight on his left ankle, he collapsed back on the bed and swore in Russian under his breath. He waited for some of the pain to subside before he would try again.

"Illya-" Gaby began but he quickly cut her off.

"I'm fine."

"Where did you learn to speak English, Peril?" Napoleon asked; his usual smug manner had returned and in a way Illya found it comforting.

"What?" Illya grunted, pushing himself up a second time. He tested his ankle more gingerly this time and found that so long as he only put weight on it for fractions of a second at a time, he could manage.

"Because I want to have a word with your teacher. He's giving his students an extremely odd definition of 'fine'."

"Hilarious, Cowboy," Illya said through gritted teeth as he hobbled to the bathroom. "Remind me to buy book of your jokes." Again, his damned ankle nearly gave out on him, which drew Gabby immediately to his side like a moth to a light.

"Illya-"

"Gaby, please," he said and his tone was final. "I am fine."

Before she could fret any more, Illya limped into the bathroom and slammed the door right behind him.

He gimped to the mirror and took a deep breath to brace himself. First, he painfully pulled off his shirt to inspect his chest. Once he had finally been able to raise his arms above his head enough to get his shirt off, he discovered a deep purple bruise that flowered across nearly a third of his chest. No doubt from his ribs. He watched his chest flutter open with each breath he took. On his side ran a deep slash from his under arm to his hip with dried blood caked all around it. His eyes were black, his nose and mouth were freshly bloody, and an oozing, puffy gash sliced his cheek in half.

"Infected," Illya sighed quietly, taking one of the towels, wetting it under the tap, and starting the tedious process of cleaning his wounds. "Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Poorly stifled whispers from outside his bedroom had woken Illya. The sun's rays were already boldly infiltrating his room; how long had he been asleep this time? Someone had tucked the covers tightly around him; he prayed that it was Gaby who had done so. Had she slept beside him, or had she moved out to the only other available sleeping area in the hotel room.. There were only two beds in the hotel room; had Gaby spent the night on the couch? He tried to sit up but waves of guilt and nausea forced him down.

"Shhh, Gaby, he's sleeping." Napoleon's voice from behind the wall, completely devoid of its usual suavity, made the hairs on Illya's neck stand at attention.

"That's precisely the problem!" Gaby came as close to a scream as a whisper could get. "I've never seen him sleep before and now that's all he does!"

"He won't admit it, but he's probably just tired. The KGB would tire you out too, I'd imagine. That's what they do."

"He's not 'just tired', Napoleon. He's had a fever for five straight days now and it's not showing any signs of going down."

"You're too worried, Gaby. Haven't you ever had a fever in your life?"

Illya heard the smack of hand against skin. "For the love of God, Napoleon, he's coughing up blood alongside it! That's not normal! We need to call a doctor."

"How many times do I have to keep telling you, it's not that simple! If we call a doctor the first thing he'll want to know is where the man got hurt this badly, and then what'll we do?"

"We could lie."

"And say what? 'Oh, he fell down the stairs a little bit and there happened to be a knife and a whip in the way too'? Gaby, his injuries have torture written all over them. Once that goes down in his medical history the KGB will have no trouble finding out that he ratted on them, and then where will we be?"

Illya could listen to them bicker no longer. "He's right, Gaby. The KGB will know if I go to doctor."

Immediately, his partners were in his room. Gaby rushed to his bedside while Napoleon remained hovering by the door, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Illya," Gaby said breathlessly and pushed some of Illya's hair back off his forehead. "Did we wake you? Oh, I'm sorry."

Illya shook his head. "I was up before I heard you."

Gaby eased herself onto the bed next to Illya, so gently that he could scarcely feel the bedsprings compress underneath her. "What do you mean they'll know if we get you a doctor? How?"

Illya took a deep breath, but then began to cough. He twisted away so he would not cough at Gaby, and watched wearily as the sheets turned red once more. "Not again," he muttered between gasps for breath.

The bedsprings sprang up; Gaby was far less cautious getting up than she was sitting down. "That is it! He needs a doctor. I don't care what-"

Napoleon grabbed her by the shoulder. "Gaby, listen, you can't just-"

She twisted herself free of his grasp and elbowed him in the shoulder. "I can and I will, Napoleon! There is-"

"Gaby," Illya managed to croak out. He felt his face grow hot, this time not from fever but from embarrassment at how weak his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Please stop."

She froze. Her cheeks were still pink and her brown hair was still coming wildly undone, but the dangerous, stubborn fire behind her eyes was dying fast, extinguished by the tears forming at the corners. Gaby ran the chain of her necklace between her fingers and bit her lip.

"Illya, you're going to kill me, do you know that?"

Her wavering voice sent pain coursing through his chest far greater than that of his broken ribs. "Gaby, no. If KGB finds out, then they will kill you."

"But how would they find out? Hmm? Tell me that, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya tried to disregard the way she spat out his last name. "They keep tabs on everyone around here. They will make connections, they know where we are staying. If doctor comes here, they will know. The agent who tortured me will-"

"He won't do anything," Gaby said with such frightening finality that Illya looked confoundedly over at Napoleon, who shrugged his shoulders.

"How can you know this? KGB-"

"Because Solo killed him."

Napoleon rolled his eyes and slapped his hands against his sides in a show of exasperation. "You just had to tell him."

"You did what, Cowboy?"

"I got a little carried away with the gun, but that's hardly the point here. I-"

"That's hardly the point?" Illya repeated, sitting even farther forward in his bed. He could feel his hands beginning to shake. "You killed KGB agent! That is big deal!"

"Now you've done it, Gaby. He was getting better and-"

"Look what I've done?" Gaby clutched at her breast in disbelief. "I'm just stating facts. I didn't ask you to kill that man, did I?"

"And I didn't ask you to tell Illya about it!"

As their screaming match escalated, Illya held his pounding head in his hands. Back and forth, back and forth, they were both so loud. He could feel the noise weighing upon him. At last he could stand it no longer. "Stop yelling!"

Instantly, the American and the German fell silent.

"I'm sorry," Gaby whispered tentatively, fresh tears forming in her eyes as she looked at Illya's rare display of weakness. She pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle her crying.

"There is no way now you can call doctor if Solo killed KGB agent. KGB has two reasons now to be after us, don't give third."

Gaby looked frantically from Napoleon to Illya and back again, as if she were an animal caught in a hunter's trap. When neither said anything more, she stamped her foot and scurried out of the room. A few moments later Illya heard the loud slam of the hotel door.

Illya could do nothing but sink back into his bed with an almighty sigh. He held his agonizing chest and grimaced.

"Peril-" Napoleon began softly, but Illya cut him off.

"We will talk about this later."

Napoleon nodded and stood uncomfortably in place for a few moments more, hands in his pockets and a foreign expression on his face, one that looked vaguely like helplessness. He then started to whistle and strolled casually out of Illya's room and then out of the hotel room. Napoleon was much gentler closing the door than Gaby was. Even so, the little click it made as it shut signified that Illya was alone once more.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya had ignored the tinny ringing of an incoming telephone call for three separate times in rapid succession, but by the fourth call he couldn't stand by idly any longer. He heaved himself out of bed, reluctantly put the crutches Solo had gotten him under his arms, and made his way over to answer.

"Hello?"

"Peril, is that you?"

Illya exhaled heavily. "No, it's not, Cowboy. It's Gaby."

"Keep it up and one day you just might be as funny as I am." There was something off about Napoleon's voice; it sounded tired and used up like a slowly deflating balloon. Perhaps it was just the reception.

There was a stretch of pointed silence before Napoleon said, "Has she been back yet?"

Illya's chest felt even more broken as he gave a tight, "No."

Napoleon knew better than to press the issue. The silence this time was even heavier, and it suffocated Illya like a wet blanket, making it hard to breathe much less to speak.

"Do you-do you think she's…"

"No. We both know Gaby. She's too stubborn to die."

Illya shook his head and pressed the phone harder against his mouth, lowering his voice to scarcely more than a whisper. "Stubbornness won't keep KGB away! She was the one wanting to call doctor for me. What if she did and they got her?"

Napoleon took too long to reply and his tone was less than convincing. "They wouldn't get her, Peril. How would they get her?"

"You don't know KGB, Cowboy!" Illya hissed into the receiver.

"And it doesn't sound like you really know Gaby. She's fine."

"Cowboy, it's been five days."

"She's fine."

Illya opened his mouth but instead of words came yet another coughing fit. Soon enough, his hands were stained red again and his shuddering coughs made him drop his crutches. The fire in his chest as he sighed was more of a nuisance now. This is really getting old.

"Is it still bloody?" Napoleon asked.

"No," Illya lied as he wiped his hands on his shirt before bending over slowly to retrieve his crutches. A small grunt escaped his lips and he prayed that Solo didn't hear.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"You just lied to me twice in a row."

Illya's lack of response was an answer enough for Napoleon. He clicked his tongue. "Can't be lying to me, now can we?"

When Illya continued to brood in silence on the other end, Napoleon said, "I'll be back tomorrow morning, just do me a favor and try not to die before then. Waverly'd have my head if you died."

"Why do you have to be gone till tomorrow morning?"

"Business."

Illya rolled his eyes, a gesture which went unappreciated by Solo. "Is this the same woman as last night?"

"Of course not."

And as Illya hung up the phone, he couldn't help but smile. At least one of them was still as he was supposed to be.

Slowly but surely Illya crutched his way to the couch. As he sat there, he tried to keep his mind off Gaby by finishing his game of chess on the coffee table, but his thoughts of her were just as distracting as if she had been dancing around the room again. In one fluid motion, the board and the chess pieces went clattering to the floor. It was no use.

If Illya were a religious man, he would've prayed then for her return. He would've prayed that Gaby be kept safe wherever she was and that she still loved him enough to come back. In his loneliness he was even starting to wonder how it was one made the Sign of the Cross-left to right, up then down?-when three knocks came at the door.

Leaving his crutches behind, Illya flew up from the couch and was already halfway to the door when the sound of the last knock had dissipated. He could scarcely feel the pain in his broken ankle anymore. Could it be? Illya found his sweating hand could hardly turn the doorknob.

But it wasn't Gaby. Illya knew who the two men in black standing in his doorframe were and what they were going to do before they even put the rag over his face, but by that point Illya simply had no strength left with which to fight them anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

"Kuryakin, can you hear me?" The whole world was buzzing like a thousand tiny bees, but a voice was coming into focus through the din. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Illya croaked out, the bright light that had enveloped him fading away so that he could see the face of his captor. The gaunt, skeletal countenance was familiar. "Vedemshchin?"

"Ah, so I take it you can see me too now, Kuryakin." Vedemshchin leaned away from Illya's face, the very same sadistic smirk playing across his lips. Vedemshchin had been Illya's first experience with training to withstand torture. The only time Illya had ever failed in his training. "It's been awhile since I got to torture anyone as interesting as you."

Illya tried to raise his hands only to find them bound to his chair. The only light in the room was coming from a small bulb above his head, and though the rest of the room was in grey shadows, he could tell it was smaller than the one he had been in before. The last time he had been kidnapped for torture. "Where am I now? It's different from last time."

"Very perceptive," Vedemshchin said sardonically. "I guess the drug wasn't as debilitating as I'd hoped."

"Where am I?"

Without warning, Vedemshchin slapped Illya across the face. "You get to be in headquarters now, Illya. No chance of your little friend coming in to save you now. This place has security like no warehouse could ever dream of. We got a little sloppy. And guess who gets to pay?"

Illya shrugged his shoulders, which earned him another slap.

"You."

The man got up and disappeared into the shadows. "I don't know why they want me here again, I told them everything last time," Illya moaned after him.

"Oh, did you?" Vedemshchin reappeared, then made a waving gesture somewhere behind him. "Then who's this?"

A woman stumbled into the light as if she had been shoved. Gaby. His heart skipped a beat. She looked into Illya's eyes, and though her face was tired and sallow, she bore no noticeable injuries. Illya could recognize those eyes anywhere, even under the film of fear that hid in them now. Gaby. How he wanted to take her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

Instead, he bit his lip, kept his eyes hovering somewhere beyond her shoulder, and said in the most even voice he possessed, "I have no idea."

Vedemshchin punched Illya in the mouth, and Illya leaned over the chair and spat out a bloody mixture of something that appeared to have teeth in it. He heard Gaby whimper ever so softly.

"Take her out," Vedemshchin said. "She doesn't have to see this."

Illya heard a door slam shut and Vedemshchin hit Illya again. "Tell us who she is. We know already and we know you do too, we're just giving you one last chance to stop being a fucking liar."

When Illya didn't answer, his interrogator said, "Don't believe me, huh?" Vedemshchin clucked his tongue and reached behind Illya's chair. He emerged with a sopping wet rag, which he than pressed over Illya's mouth and nose.

"Bring in the tape," he ordered, though no one else appeared to be in the room. As Illya begin to squirm to try to free himself to breathe, he saw movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. "Oh, sorry Kuryakin, is this bothering you?"

Vedemshchin didn't lift the cloth until another man had joined him, the latter holding a bulky tape recorder. "Set that down, Vasili, and let him hear it. And Christ, Kuryakin, stop overreacting. It's just water."

Illya closed his eyes to shut out the little grin on Vedemshchin's face and gasped for breath. He heard the click of the tape recorder being switched on, and then the squeaking reeling of tape before a male voice appeared.

"Say your name again."

There was hardly a pause before a weary female voice answered. "Gaby Teller."

"Who do you work for?"

"UNCLE."

"And what is UNCLE?"

"It's an international spy organization, based in England."

"Who is your handler?"

"My handler is Waverly."

"Who do you work with? We understand you have two partners. Who are they?"

"An American and a Russian."

"Their names?"

There was a pause, and Illya prayed that Gaby would say no more. She was strong, she could lie, she wouldn't tell them everything she knew.

"Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin." Illya let out a long exhale and Vedemshchin slapped him again.

The recording continued. "These two, they have nicknames for each other, do they not?"

"Napoleon's is Cowboy and Illya's is Peril."

"Good, good." Illya could hear the smile in his voice. "And with whom are you closest?"

Illya's breath hitched as he heard Gaby ask fearfully, "In-in what way do you mean, sir?"

"Everyone picks favorites. With whom are you closest?"

Breathlessly. "Illya."

"What missions have you been on together?"

Please Gaby, don't say anything more. "Our first mission together was in Rome. We posed as a couple there and we did the same on several other missions afterward."

"Specifics. How many other missions were there and where were they?"

"Four. Istanbul, London, Vienna, and Morocco."

Illya's eyes snapped open when he heard his own interrogator's voice once more. "I could play the rest of this, but I think you get the picture, don't you Illya? Your beloved Gaby wasn't as faithful as you thought, now was she?"

Illya gritted his teeth to stop himself from insulting the Vedemshchin. He didn't need a repeat of training; now was the time to keep his anger in check. It wasn't until he tasted blood in his mouth that he released he had been biting the inside of his cheeks as well.

"Now, if only you were as willing to share the information we want to hear as Ms. Teller was willing to inform us about your nights in Morocco. It sounds like the two of you did more than just pose as a couple."

Illya struggled against his bindings. He didn't know what superhuman tetherings the KGB used, but all they did was dig deeper into his skin. He could tell he wasn't getting out. "Just let me go!"

Vedemshchin shoved Illya's chair over, sending Illya face-first into the cement floor with no arms to break the fall. "You don't seem to understand. I guess all that time outside the U.S.S.R. has made you forget how the KGB works. We tell you to do something and you do it. You don't ask questions and you certainly don't tell us what to do."

Illya groaned into the floor. "Yes, sir."

"If you cooperate with me today, we will send you back to UNCLE. You will get to see your beloved Gaby again, though I can't imagine why you'd want to. You will pay attention to detail and be involved so you can report extensively and truthfully back to us. However, you will not make the mistake of thinking you work for them again, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Think of it as a test of your loyalty. You will follow the parameters we set for your mission, not whatever your Waverly or your dick are telling you to do. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Vedemshchin peeled Illya off the floor and stuck him back upright. With his iron grasp still on the back of Illya's neck, Vedemshchin leaned in until his face was mere inches from Illya. He smiled his signaturely sadistic manner, and Illya could count every one of those wretched, yellowing teeth.

"Don't forget who we are, Kuryakin," he growled. "And most importantly, don't forget who I am. I trained you, I'm sure you remember. I know what it takes to break you. If I didn't have specific orders from headquarters to do all I could to send you out of here alive for another chance at your mission, I'd be calling your mother right now to tell her you suffered an unfortunate 'accident'. So you'd better do as you're told, Kuryakin, because if we have to bring you back here one more time, headquarters won't mess around with some amateur interrogator like they did before. They'll call me back in here, and there won't be any more orders to keep you alive. Is that understood?"

Illya swallowed to keep his voice from shaking. "Yes, sir."

Vedemshchin nodded to his assistant, who clicked on the tape recorder. The tapes squealed in Illya's ears.

"State your name and who you work for."

With as much of a sigh as his aching heart and body could muster, Illya began to tell it all, just as Gaby had. "My name is Illya Kuryakin and I work for the KGB."


	6. Chapter 6

All that was left now of the interrogation by Vedemshchin was a broken collarbone and the more painful memories. The collarbone must have been nearly healed, or perhaps it wasn't; Illya hadn't worn the sling he'd been given either way. It was buried somewhere beneath the grimy bedsheets in the motel room he'd bought himself when the KGB had turned him loose. His mission was supposed to have been effective immediately: find and capture Napoleon Solo and Gaby Teller as pawns for an information trade with UNCLE. But Illya lied that his collarbone was paining him a lot more than it was and so was able to secure himself an empty week to "recuperate".

That week was over.

Illya took a cab to the swanky hotel at which Napoleon and Gaby were staying and demanded keys to their room. The diminutive little clerk didn't take much convincing, for which Illya was grateful. As he turned the key to their little suite with a shaking hand, he found himself hoping that neither would be there so that he could report back to the KGB that he couldn't find them and they would just shoot him dead right then and there. It would be so much easier that way.

Gaby was leafing through a newspaper on an expensive-looking satin couch and didn't bother to look up. "Napoleon, I find it hard to believe that you're back already."

When her statement was met with no response, she at last glanced up and saw Illya, a massive presence looming in the doorway. She threw her magazine aside and sprang up.

"Illya!"

"Sit down."

Gaby was stunned into silence and submission. For a few moments she watched, knotting her fingers in her lap uncomfortably and crossing and uncrossing her legs, as Illya banged around in the cabinets for glasses. He took down only one, filled it with water from the tap, and made no offer to her.

"Illya." Her tone was cautious, apprehensive, as if trying to appeal to an armed assailant. "You're back."

The glass slipped from his trembling grasp and shattered on the ground. In his periphery, he saw Gaby start to get up. "Stay there," he ordered and she paused but did not sit.

"Illya, please-"

He cut her off as he mopped up the glass shards and the water with the hotel's embroidered towels, struggling to keep his voice calm and even. "Is Mr. Solo here at the moment?"

At this Gaby sank back into the furniture and started to cry. Illya watched her from the kitchen, her shoulders lurching up and down and her youthful body looking so small and frail against the sudden vastness of the couch. But before his legs could carry him to her side, he occupied himself with pouring another glass of water.

"Illya, please," she said softly and hoarsely, so that he was forced to draw nearer in order to hear her. "I'm so sorry."

"Answer my question or I leave and try again later," Illya said, already halfway to the door.

She ran to him, stopping a noticeable few inches farther away than she used to. She looked at him searchingly, with a hurt and remarkably childish expression drawn into her falling lips. Illya brushed past her and the couch, over to the window. It was a juvenile cat and mouse game sure, but anything to avoid being within an arm's length of Gaby. He was afraid of what he might do if he were able to get his hands on her.

"Illya!" Gaby sobbed, clutching the corner of her dress and not even bothering to wipe the makeup that was dripping from her face. "Please listen to me!"

"I'm listening, Gaby," Illya said curtly, yanking the blinds closed to give his hands something to do and inadvertently tearing them in the process. "Go ahead, tell me everything like you told KGB."

She was still crying but now there was an edge to her voice. "Do you think I wanted to tell them everything, Illya?"

This time when the glass hit the ground, it was intentional. "Yes, I think you did! You were just waiting all this time for the right moment to-to _betray_ me!"

Hot, dry anger had taken the place of Gaby's tears. "Betray you? Betray you! You think I _wanted_ to betray you? I had to tell them, I-"

"You had to tell them? You work for them now?"

"Waverly told me to!" Gaby screamed and Illya froze, letting the scream ring out through the hotel room. Gaby took a shaky breath in and continued in a softer tone of voice, though not any less heated. "When I came home that day and saw you weren't there, I knew what happened. I called Waverly and said they'd taken you and I wanted to go right then and there to take you back but he wouldn't let me." Her breath caught there, but she swallowed heavily and went on.

"He wouldn't let me because he said they must have been serious about whatever they wanted, since they came to you and dragged you out, injured and everything. He wanted to send Napoleon in, but he couldn't get a hold of him. I begged to go again and Waverly finally said yes, but he told me exactly what to do and what to say. He said to expose all of the mission information that you'd know, because they'd try to use that against you. Waverly said the information didn't matter as long as they don't kill you, that he'd find another way to negotiate something. So I went in there and I told them what they wanted to hear."

Gaby was still on the other side of the room, and Illya eyed her as he sat stiffly down on the couch to make sure she didn't come near. She was watching him, wringing her dress like a nervous little schoolgirl in the headmaster's office, wondering if she said too little or too much.

When Illya spoke again at last, no matter how he meticulously he considered his words and how slowly he formed them in his mouth, he could not keep his voice even. "You planned to betray mission anyway. Two times you let them torture me and then you tell them everything anyway. No big deal though, because your 'Waverly' told you to."

"Illya please don't think that way," Gaby pleaded, chancing to inch closer. "It was to save you. We put the mission in danger to save you."

Illya laughed harshly, and felt tears prick at his eyes for the first time in years. "Save me? Maybe I should go back and work for KGB, at least they don't lie."

Gaby blinked as if he had struck her. "Lie?" she repeated quietly. "Illya, I never lied. Don't you understand, I couldn't let them kill you."

"But you have no problem letting them break my bones again and again. No problem letting them hurt me." Hot tears were dripping down his cheeks, and he rubbed an irritated arm over his face to wipe them away. He winced at the pain from his collarbone and, judging from the expression on Gaby's face, she had seen him do so.

It wasn't until she spoke that he realized how close she had come to him. "Illya, do you know how hard it was for me to do that?" He could feel her breath and smell the old, familiar scent of her jasmine perfume.

Illya stood up and pushed her aside. His hand was on the doorknob when her voice stopped him again, soft as the beat of a butterfly wing.

"Illya, I love you."

There had been a time when he had dreamt for nights on end of hearing those words spill from Gaby's lips, a time when he would have spun around and taken her up in his arms to kiss her as hard as he could. For a second, he thought of returning to that time.

Instead, he left without a backward glance and slammed the door behind him as loudly as he could.

 **A/N:** If anyone actually ever reads these things, I apologize that it's been so long since I last updated this. I hope you're still enjoying it :)


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